Bad Moon Rising
by J Wombat
Summary: Leaving Alcide Herveaux behind wasn't nearly as hard as seeing him again after all those years. Guess that's what happens when you're sweet on your best friend. Alcide/OC
1. Born On The Bayou

So I haven't done much publishing over the last couple of years. Mostly for fear that my work is still as bad as my previous stories, which at this point in my life are yawn city.

I've set this morsel somewhere in or around the third season, because that's when I started writing it. Sad, I know. It's been gathering dust for a while now, so I figured I might as well spruce it up a bit and show it off.

This is a lengthy first chapter made mostly of backstory; please don't set your expectations of me too high for future installations. I'd hate to disappoint.

Don't forget to review, sly dogs.  
J Wombat

(And for the love of literature, if you see grammar/spelling mistakes, please PM me.)

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**Bad Moon Rising**

**Chapter One: Born On The Bayou**

The day Alcide shifts, we meet in the woods after supper and chores, on the pretense that Alcide has something real important to tell me. It's well past dark, but there's a lingering steaminess that comes with the South, something sticky and humid that makes water bead up on my skin. He's already in our usual clearing waiting for me, pacing through the tall, sharp blades of grass with nervous excitement. I wear pants now when we come out here, despite the heat; I've got too many fine scars from the paper-thin reeds. He looks up at me, shaggy brown hair dropping into his equally brown eyes.

"There you are! I've been waitin' near forever!"

I roll my eyes at him. "Right. So what's this all about?"

He strides up to me and grips my upper arms. He's a tall, gangly thing for his age, and he towers over my petite frame. He's quiet for a while, mouth opening and closing like he doesn't quite know how to say it. I look up into his eyes for any kind of hint to his secret, but find none. I toss my arms about in a huff, shaking him off me.

"Come on, Al', spit it out already!"

"I shifted!"

It's out of his mouth in a fraction of a second, so fast it takes me a moment to realize what he's saying. My eyes go wide, and I clap a hand over my mouth. Shifted, at his age? Alcide's only in his thirteenth year, and it even took my dad until fourteen to shift, and that was young. Most boys shift at fifteen, girls around sixteen or seventeen. At eleven, I have a long time to wait before I even get the chance to shift. I feel tears beginning to well up in my eyes, and I can't help but sniffle.

Alcide's eyes soften. "Well, aren't you happy for me? 'Stelle?"

I laugh, but it comes out as a half-sob. "Of course I'm happy for you, stupid. It's just... well now that you've shifted, you're gonna be hangin' around the grown folks, learnin' the ways of the pack, and... and you'll stop hangin' out with me, stop bein' my friend, y'know."

"That's horse shit." I gasp at Alcide's swear words. "You know I won't stop bein' your friend, no matter what kinds of errands those old folks'll have me doin'. I... I might be a little busy; I probably won't have time to play around with you, but you'll always be my best friend, 'Stelle. And when you shift, we'll be able to hang out all the time!"

I rub the tears from my eyes; my little voice is still nasally, but it's filled with hope. "Promise?"

He pulls me into an embrace, and my head barely reaches his chest. His heart already beats more rapidly; he's already running hotter than normal. I nuzzle into his warmth, and he ruffles my wild hair. "Promise."

Three years later, I'm fourteen and a freshman at the local high school. I take the bus; Alcide's sixteen and already driving his dad's motorcycle to school. He always offers to take me, but Mamma would pitch a fit if she ever caught me on the back of one of those things, so instead I wait for the big yellow bus at the corner.

When I get to school, everyone's just standing around the halls before class - hangin' out, makin' out, and actin' out. I pass by Alcide and the group that clusters around him; it's mostly girls, of course. I try one time to squeeze in to say hey, but I can't seem to find an inch of free space between all the overly developed girls; Mamma would have called them hussies. I catch Alcide's eye over the coiffed, dolled up heads as I walk past, and he smiles at me over the crowd, giving me a pronounced wave. I wave back as I pass by, feeling a lone butterfly come to life inside my stomach.

He sits with me at lunch sometimes, and girls give me looks that make so nervous I could cry. Alcide doesn't notice them, and if he does, he just ignores them.

"What've you been up to, kid?" He ruffles my hair when sits down, leaving my curls a wreck.

I harrumph and try to dodge his massive hands. "Well I _was_ up to havin' a good hair day, Al'."

He grins; I call him Al' so he knows I'm not angry with him. His smiles drops a little.

"I miss you, y'know."

I pick at the food on my tray. The tater tots are slick with cooking oil, and the meatloaf is grey and lackluster. "Yeah, I bet the pack is keepin' you pretty busy, though."

"That doesn't stop me from missin' my best friend. That pack stuff is just chores without you, 'Stelle." His smile is back now. "I can't wait for you to shift - then we'll have some _real_ fun, gettin' into trouble, like when we were kids."

I laugh at his optimism. "Gimme a few years, pal. I'm still a kid over here."

"Yeah, well your mom shifted at sixteen right on the nose, and your dad shifted pretty early, maybe you will too."

I rest my chin on my hands, feeling the infectious brightness of Alcide's attitude rubbing off on me. One butterfly becomes two. "Maybe."

On my sixteenth birthday I'm sitting at the dining room table with Daddy, wearing a gauzy lavender dress. (I tell Daddy I'm wearing it 'cause I like the color, but really it's 'cause Alcide said it looked nice on me one day at church.) I know he's got important pack matters to attend to, but he manages to find a couple of hours to spend with his only daughter. Mamma's at her day job as a bank teller, but she'll be home soon. But Alcide, he's not here yet, and he promised. Promised to be there when I turn sixteen; promised to be there when I finally shift; promised to still be my friend.

The screen door creaks, and I'm up and running from the table before it has time to slam shut.

"Alci - oh. Hey, Mamma."

She pulls me in briefly, kissing the top of my head while murmuring birthday wishes. When she pulls back, she won't look me in the eye. "I'm sorry, sugar. I talked to Janice and... honey, he's not comin', the boys got called out to run perimeter. I'm sorry, baby."

I hear my dad grumbling about no-good dogs as I rush up the stairs. My bedroom door closes with a tight snap, and I curl up onto my bed, wrinkling my pretty dress. I choke back sobs, but the tears leak through and the shaking starts. Clutching desperately at my chest, I murmur to myself.

"Shift. Shift. C'mon, shift already!"

I flex and tighten up all my muscles until I'm sorer than when Daddy whooped me for being in his gun closet. I tense until I'm convulsing with the ache, hoping somehow it'll trigger a reaction, a shift, anything. But nothing comes.

There's a knock on my door, and I don't respond.

The door creaks open, and footsteps pad over to my bed. The bed shifts behind me, springs squeaking just a little, and a small head pokes over my shoulder.

"Why ya cryin, 'Elle?"

It's Claude, my little brother. He's nine years old and sweet as can be, with his charming smile and bright blue eyes. He looks just like Mamma; I take more after our dad.

"It's nothin', Claude. I'm fine."

"Well you sure don't look fine, your eyes are all red and puffy!" He puts on his best serious face. "Did somebody hurt you?"

I sniffle a little. "I guess so."

"Well are you gonna get Alcide to go beat 'em up?"

I laugh a little, because I don't know what to tell him. How do I tell him that Alcide, the person Claude's been looking up to since he could walk, is the one who's let me down, the one who's hurt me?

I ruffle his hair and smile at him, but something tells me it's not quite up to par.

"Somethin' like that."

Alcide has the nerve to show up at my house the next week. He's clutching a sweet bundle of wildflowers with ragged stems, tied together with a piece of twine, but the sight of him through the peephole's got me so irked, I can barely speak. But when I open the door, it's hard not to notice his transformation in our time apart.

Alcide is eighteen years old now, but that body is at least twenty-five. His black t-shirt is stretched over his chest and shoulders, and his biceps are suffocated by the sleeves. He's standing now at least six-foot-three with his short-cropped hair and five o'clock shadow; it's hard to remember to be angry with him when he's standing there looking so... delectable. I try to rein my hormones in, but it's hard to deny that I now have a full-blown crush on my best friend.

I make to open the screen door, but then I remember I'm angry, so I leave it shut. I nod toward the flowers.

"Who're those for?" I ask, feigning disinterest.

He looks at his feet for a moment, before gazing at me through the dusty screen. "They're for my best friend."

I snort rudely - and it's a good thing Mamma isn't around to hear me and chastise me for my unladylike behavior. "Funny, I ain't seen anyone by that description around these parts."

He sighs, shoulders drooping. "Look, I'm sorry –"

I fling open the screen door - almost catching him right in the nose - and march out onto the porch. "Are you shittin' me?" He looks a little alarmed at my cursing. "'I'm sorry?' That's all you got for me?"

He moves to give me the flowers, but I thrust an accusing finger into his chest, halting him.

"No! A bundle of pretty flowers ain't gonna fix this, Alcide. You were supposed to be here for me, as my best friend!"

He takes a step closer, opening his mouth to apologize again, and I smack him clear across the face. He's calm as he turns his head back to look at me, and it makes me even madder seeing him look so calm while my hand stings something fierce. Feeling audacious, I raise my hand to hit him again, and he catches me by the arm, two fingers easily circling my wrist and trapping it in a solid hold. I use my free hand to make a fist and thump him once on one of his hard pectoral muscles, and he doesn't even budge.

I start yelling at him, and I don't even know what I'm saying. I beat against his chest with all my might, and he releases my wrist and lets me; he lets me get it all out until I'm reduced to a quivering, crying mess, hands hitting him on the chest like a flower hitting a brick wall.

He finally grabs my shoulders and moves me back a mite so he can look at me. My eyes are red and puffy and my tears have done hell to my mascara. He uses the pads of his thumbs to wipe away the black trails on my cheeks; the rest of his fingers cradle my head gently like a frail baby bird. He looks me straight in the eyes and I can feel myself melting clean into the floor.

"I'm sorry, Estelle. I'd never hurt you on purpose. You've gotta believe that."

Another tear leaks out, and he pulls me close to him, arms wrapping around me tight. I sob into his chest, nose buried in his shirt, and I'm not sure whether I'm crying at his negligence or at my absent shifting. I'm ready to forgive him though, to call myself the fool and let things go back to normal.

But on each intake of breath, I can smell that God-awful perfume Debbie wears all over his shirt.

Two years later, I'm eighteen, and Alcide is helping load my things into the SUV. Things ain't really been the same over the past few years; Alcide and I've drifted apart. Debbie's got him by the balls most of the time, and why he lets her is anyone's guess. She's let him go for today, but somethin' tells me she's close by anyway.

He's here under the pretense of helping me pack up and move out, but I don't have too many things to take with me, so we're sitting on the steps of the porch, and I'm hoping he'll say something to break the silence. He doesn't disappoint.

"So you drivin' up?"

"Yep. Twenty two hours. Daddy and I'll get a hotel or somethin' on the way." I pick at the weeds that grow through the boards of the deck, ripping them into small pieces before scattering them across the gravel at our feet. It keeps my hands busy, because I don't know what I'd do with them otherwise. Probably something stupid, like tuck back that cowlick Alcide has, the one right there that always hangs down in his eyes. They were untrustworthy like that, my hands. Always trying to touch him when he was in reach, get my hands in his ever-growing hair. "Y'know, sometimes I wish I weren't goin'."

"C'mon, 'Stelle. Not everyone around here gets the chance to go to Brown. Get outta here and be someone."

He sounds convincing enough, but his eyes are big and sad. I wish I _could_ stay, stay and be apart of the pack, but we both know the opportunity has come and gone. At eighteen I still haven't shifted. One time I try to convince myself that I'm a late bloomer, but my ample chest and rounded hips suggest otherwise. My parents try not to mention it, but it's hard when Claude is getting bigger by the minute – eleven years old and already running warm at five-foot-six. Daddy tries not to be too thrilled around me, but I can always see him grinning away, proud as punch.

Daddy walks around the house from the backyard and, to my dismay, sidles right up to us.

"Honey, you mind givin' me and Alcide a minute? Go say bye to your brother."

"Sure, Daddy."

I've already said bye to Claude six times today, hugging him and kissing his cheeks until he's as embarrassed as if that girl he likes from school were watching him. So instead, I go back into the house, wandering into the sitting room where I can see them from the window. I can tell they're talking about something important, the way Alcide's hands move around like when he's passionate about something, and the way Daddy leans in real close like when he knows we just stuffed our toys under the bed instead of putting them away. It was probably boring pack stuff. Daddy likes to give Alcide a hard time every once and a while. Says it'll give him character. I laugh at the thought. In my opinion, the only thing it's given him is a sore spot on his ass from where he says he's been kicked in it.

I wait for them to disperse. I walk back out onto the porch, and Daddy gets in the truck, leaving me and Alcide to say our goodbyes. I walk down the steps to meet him on the gravel.

"You can come visit me sometime, you know."

He laughs. A healthy, beautiful laugh. "You're bat shit crazy if you think you're gettin' me up to that cold Yankee city!"

I laugh back, and it feels good despite the circumstance. "Well you can't blame me for tryin'." I get a little more serious, and step as close to him as I dare, which isn't nearly as close as I would like. But he takes care of the rest for me, and we stand toe to toe, breathing the same air. The butterflies in my belly are flying around at full speed, and I swear he can likely hear my heart pounding in my chest. It takes me a minute to finally open my big mouth and speak, and when I do, my voice is choked.

"I'm gonna miss you, Al'."

He looks down at me, his brown eyes reflecting my own.

"I miss you already, 'Stelle."

He's so close, and there's the briefest of moment when he looks down at my lips, and I swear he's gonna kiss me. Just lean down and press his lips up against mine and kiss me breathless while his hands twine into my long hair, begging me to stay, which I gladly would if he would only ask. But then he pulls me into a warm embrace, meanwhile pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead. His arms encircle me completely, hands fisted in the sides of my shirt. I cling to him with equal fervor, and there's something about this particular hug that sends a unique warmth straight to my heart, and perhaps lower. He pulls away, and reluctantly I move back, but he catches my hands in his larger ones before I can pull away completely. He gives them a squeeze.

"You give 'em hell up there, alright? Make me proud."

I squeeze them back as hard as I can, and his smile makes my heart lighter. I blink back the threat of tears, but I know my eyes are red and glassy.

"You betcha."


	2. Tombstone Shadow

Not a lengthy chapter here, apologies, but not a whole lot of writing has been going on. I find I'm lacking inspiration, while hangnails seem to be abundant. And unfortunately, the exchange rate is not in my favor.

Either way, here's a little nugget for you all. Estelle's werewolf/non-werewolf status has been addressed, for those of you wondering. And if you couldn't tell, I've been listening to a lot of Creedence Clearwater Revival lately, so that's where these titles are coming from.

Also, how fabulous were those reviews? I'm stunned, and frankly - flattered. With a single chapter, this story has blown my others out of the water, as far as followers are concerned. And if even a third of those followers take the time to review - well, I'd say that's a great start. I understand, reviewing takes time, so thank you for doing it. You all are absolutely terrific.

Keep up your good work, and I'll be sure to keep up mine ;)  
J Wombat

(Also, please don't let me embarrass myself with rookie grammar/spelling mistakes. PM me.)

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**Bad Moon Rising**

**Chapter Two: Tombstone Shadow**

It turns out leaving Alcide behind is just as hard as I think it is. So for the first year I'm gone, I call him as often as I can.

The first time I call, he's excited to hear from me and can't wait to hear about moving in and the week that followed. I start telling him about my nightmare of a roommate when I hear voices in the background, deep and authoritative.

Pack business.

He sighs and speaks quickly; he has to go, but he'll call me back next week, and he wants to hear every extraneous detail. I hang up and dutifully acknowledge his obligations to the pack. I just hope I hang up quickly enough that he doesn't hear me sniffling.

But when he calls one afternoon, I'm in class, listening to my uncomely anthropology professor blather about Amazonian fertility rites.

And when he calls another night, I'm in the library, studying for my first round of exams.

I call him and no one answers.

He calls while I'm at dinner and my roommate doesn't take a message.

I call and I'm elated when I hear the receiver pick up. But it's Debbie on the other line and my heart drops. Alcide's not there, but she's cooking him dinner and she makes sure I know it. I hang up to the sound of her raucous laughter.

I think my roommate calls it phone tag when she yells at me to cut it out. Her long distance boyfriend - who doesn't seem to conflict with her local boyfriend - has been trying to call, and can never get through when I'm hogging up the phone the way I am. So I wait until she goes to sleep and pull the phone onto my bed, huddling under my blankets like a fort.

The receiver clicks on, and I beam like a little girl, but no one answers, and I suppose someone must have bumped Alcide's beside table, knocking the phone off the hook. I can hear the faint whisper of his voice in the background, so I whisper as loud as I dare into the phone, hoping he'll hear and pick up. Debbie's there, too, and I groan, frustrated. But they stop talking, and the line goes quiet for a while. And when I think maybe someone's finally gone and hung up the phone, I hear the moaning and grunting of what can only be Alcide and Debbie rutting on the bed next to the nightstand.

And it's the last time I hear Alcide's voice for nearly ten years.

I haven't been home since the day I left. It's too expensive to fly, and too exhausting to drive, so I stay in Rhode Island every summer while I'm at Brown. I try not to be angry with my parents - they're small town people, stuck in an admittedly closed-minded subculture - but it still hurts the first time they tell me they can't visit.

They do make it for graduation though, Mamma, Daddy, and Claude - who is now bigger than a barn door and just as sturdy.

I don't let myself hope Alcide'll show up, so I'm not disappointed when he doesn't. I don't even admit to myself when I'm sobbing in the auditorium bathroom before the ceremony, slumped on the floor against the wall with my face in my hands, that I really wish he were there.

The reunion turns bittersweet when I announce that I'm not coming home. I tell them about the Ph.D. program, and Mamma dabs the corner of her eye with her kerchief. Daddy's not surprised, but he still misses his little girl. And Claude looks at me like he can't believe anyone wouldn't want to go back. I guess he doesn't realize there's not much use for you at home when you're not a werewolf. And as much as I miss running wild in the fields of sharp grass (with Alcide), staying out past dark (with Alcide), coming home with my curls tangled up with ladybugs and dandelions (some of which Alcide had placed there to cause trouble) - there's nothing waiting for me at home.

Not anymore.

It's a week and a day to my twenty-eighth birthday when my cell phone rings from a strange number. I answer it hesitantly, and heave a sigh when I hear Claude on the other line, but he sounds upset. His voice is breaking, and I can't quite tell if the reception is bad, or if he's actually crying. His sniffles confirm. I try to calm him down, get him to tell me what's wrong, but all he can talk about is how he's gonna rip the head of some bastard, which certainly catches my attention. But I can't make sense of what he's saying, so I yell at him one good time to shut him up. He goes quiet for a minute. And then he says it.

They're dead.

Mamma. Daddy. Dead.

He hears my breathing hitch over the receiver, and now he's the one trying to calm me and my short gasps. I realize I'm hyperventilating, and likely about to faint if the black spots in my vision are any indication. I close up one side of my nose and breathe deeply, easing myself out of my panic attack, but my heart's still pounding an ache into my chest. The meaning hasn't quite sunk in yet. "Dead? Whaddayamean_ dead?_"

"He killed 'em. That goddamn bloodsucker Mississippi King _killed them._ And I swear, 'Elle, he's gonna pay."

I've heard about the notorious Mississippi King. I see him on every news channel for the rest of the week; for some reason, they keep playing the clip of him ripping the spinal cord clean through the back of that news anchor as if it were a daily weather report. He's frightening in a way I can't comprehend, with his calm anger and the edge of despair that creeps into his voice.

The funeral is in a couple of days. There's a strange sense of disconnect, but I assume it's from not having seen my parents in almost ten years. A chill of anxiety washes over me when the robotic voice of my car's integrated GPS begins to direct me home. It finally starts to weigh on me; I haven't seen home in ten years, but I won't ever see my parents again, as long as I'm alive and well.

There's some nostalgia, driving the dusty streets of my old hometown. Mostly there are a lot of peculiar stares - not many people in this area own Range Rovers, which makes me think I should have gotten a rental. Something subdued, like an old Taurus in silver or green. But I veer away from prying eyes and down the old dirt trail to my parents' house. I kick up dirt and dark clay in my wake, leaving chalky red residue on my car's exterior. It looks a bit more inconspicuous now, caked in a layer of earth.

The porch steps creak now more than they used to, and the ferns hanging from the ceiling of the veranda are wilted from negligence.

My old key still works, though.

The house is dark, despite the sunlight filtering through the large bay windows. Dust motes catch the light, twirling through the rays of light like sad ballerinas. This used to be a happy place, now it's lonely and untended; a layer of dust covers the mantle, and the thickness of it is impressive enough that Mamma would just faint.

Mamma.

I stay in the house as long as I can bear, and I can't hold back a choke when I see they've left my room unchanged since my absence. The white iron bed frame with the purple peony comforter and lilac sheets. The old wooden chest of drawers Daddy had made for me when I was little, painted white to match the rest of the room. Claude's room looks different from when I left - more teenage, more lived-in.

I can't bring myself to open their door. Not yet.

There's a message on the answering machine downstairs in the kitchen. I stare for a while at the blinking red light, wondering if it's my business to listen to it. Against my better judgement, I push a button, and the house echoes with the electronic voice coming through the speaker.

_"Estelle?"_

Shit. It's Alcide. His voice is loud and clear through the machine, and maybe even deeper than before, if possible.

_"I hope you get this when you come home. I-I'm sorry about your folks. They were the last people I'd ever want something like this to happen to. Listen, I know we haven't really been in touch lately but, would you please come see me? I miss you. I'm at 35 Lark Meadow these days. You don't have to come, if you don't want. You can come find me at the funeral. Not that I want to talk at the funeral, but I do want you to talk to me there, too. I just want to catch up, you know? Just not at the funeral. But we can catch up there, too, if it comes up, I just - shit."_

The phone clicks off, and the faint electronic ringing dissipates. The corner of my mouth turns up slightly at Alcide's rambling, and drops back down when I realize I might not be ready to face him just yet. To fall helplessly into those big brown eyes again, the way I did every time I looked at him back then. To just be friends, like we were, when I always wanted more than I'm sure I could handle. He's everything that's good and bad about my past, and I can already feel the conflicting emotions churning in my belly.

But it might be the fried chicken down here.

I lock the door on my way out, strictly out of habit, and drive back out of town. I rent the most expensive room I can find, which is still at a motel, and decide to confront my past another day.


	3. It's Just A Thought

I can't remember the last time I posted. Apologies. I'd like to be that author that updates regularly, but I just can't promise that. I know, I'm terrible, but I write as the urge strikes me. Also, I'm moving in two weeks and starting grad school at the end of the month. Eek.

I was going to hold off and make this chapter longer, but I wanted to get at least a little something posted for you guys, because I feel guilty for making you all wait. Which you've all been doing so patiently, by the way.

As always, PM me for egregious spelling/grammar, and keep those reviews coming!

And as for **BulletTheBlueSkyU2**, you're a doll :)

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**Bad Moon Rising**

**Chapter Three: It's Just A Thought**

"Whoo whee! Estelle Benoir, ain't it been a minute?"

Janice is all legs when she throws open the screen door. There's a baby perched on her hip, and her long hair tumbles down one side, curling up at the ends. Janice always has the prettiest hair. The deep heat is already getting to mine this early in the day. I've been wearing my hair in those loose, tumultuous waves that are so in style, but at this rate my hair will be back to its untamed curls by noon.

She's not as tall as I remember, but I guess I was still growing when I left. She's taller than me still, though - willowy and slender with soft brown eyes and elegant lips that twirl up at the corners when she smiles at me. She plants a kiss square on my cheek and embraces me as best she can with one arm. She ushers me inside, and I breathe a sigh of relief at the coolness in the house.

The ceiling fan in the kitchen shakes a bit, but holds fast as it swirls air around us. I'm sitting at a small wooden table, watching the young toddler across from me organize his cheerios, before putting one in his mouth.

Janice sets a tall glass of lemonade in front of me, and I smile at the memories it brings back. The lemonade is cool and super sweet, the way it always was when I was a kid.

She sits down next to me and has her mouth open before I finish my first sip.

"So, have you seen him yet?"

I think about feigning ignorance for a moment, but I know that won't work with Janice. She's got a no-nonsense attitude that I always knew would make her a good mother. I avert my eyes and murmur. "No."

"Estelle," she chastises me in a motherly tone. "Put that man out of his misery and talk to him. He's been sick as a dog since he heard you were coming back."

"But I'm not _back_, Jan. I'm here for Claude."

She raises a pristine eyebrow at me, and I think I should ask her to shape up my own. "Just Claude?"

Her thinly veiled suspicion makes me bristle. "Yes," I insist. "And to settle my parents' affairs."

She scoffs as she pushes stray cheerios back into range of her child's plump arms. "Y'know, you two deserve each other. Stubborn as brick walls, the both of you."

"It ain't that simple," I mumble, mostly to myself. I hear the twang creeping back into my voice, coupled with the slang, and I cringe. I've been here too long already.

That eyebrow is back. "Ain't it though?"

"No," I say firmly. "It's not. You know, he didn't seem too bothered when he started hooking up with _Debbie_ all those years ago."

"Estelle Benoir, you know better than that. Everyone in this town knows Debbie Pelt is just a manipulative piece of ass." The last half of her sentence comes out as a harsh whisper, and she casts a nervous glance at her child, before declaring him too preoccupied with his cheerios.

"Yeah, well he didn't have to go and shack up with her."

"He was lonely, honey. And Debbie knew all the right words to say."

I want to snap at her and tell her that's no excuse, but I bite my tongue.

The sun's starting to set when I pull into the motel parking lot, and I don't want to go inside. I want to be home in my apartment, back north, curled up in my blankets watching the last remnants of frost melt away into spring.

I can feel a tightness building up in my throat - a slight prickle behind my eyes.

I take a few calming breaths and reach for my phone. Alcide is the first name in my contacts.

The phone rings twice before he picks up. "Herveaux," he answers simply.

I feel my throat constrict again. "Al'?" It's almost a whisper.

There's some shuffling on the other side, and he sounds hopeful, eager even. "'Stelle? Is that you?"

"Hey, Al'."

"Hey."

There's a period of silence. I can almost see him, standing with the phone, running a hand through his hair. I bet he still keeps it long. We start talking at the same time.

"I'm glad you called-"

"I was gonna call sooner-"

There are nervous chuckles on both sides. I let him start this time.

"I'm home right now. Did you want to stop by?"

"No... but I could sure use a drink."

I wait in the motel lot for ten minutes before I drive over to Lou Pine's. I can see the familiar form of Alcide in the parking lot, leaning against what must be a new truck. The bar's more crowded than I expected for this time of the week, and I find a spot in the back.

It's cooled significantly since the sun's gone down, making my long jeans a bit more appropriate. It's still warm, but I feel goosebumps raise along my arms when I spy Alcide headed my way. The street lights in the lot cast a dramatic shadow behind him, and the subtle sway of his hips is mesmerizing. His work boots crunch and roll the gravel, and before I know it, he's upon me.

He looks the same, but somehow so much better. His hair is longer, he's let his facial hair grow out, but it's the look in his eyes that makes him seem different. They're aged, hurt even, but deep and still so compassionate, smoldering with something unknown.

I open my mouth to speak, but he gathers me up in his arms before I have the chance. My cheek is pressed into his chest, my nose finding the opening of his shirt and inhaling deeply. He smells like earth and sawdust. My arms find their way around his back, and he winds one of his own completely around me. The other strokes my hair gently, his fingers getting snagged in my now wild hair. I feel his chin against the top of my head.

"Thank you," he whispers to me. "Thank you for coming."

And just like that I'm a teenager again. All those feelings, unrequited or otherwise, swelling up in my chest, fluttering in my stomach. The faith I had in the pack, the disappointment at never changing, and Alcide starting to slip through my fingers the moment he first shifts. I can see us in my mind's eye, young again, rolling around in fields of sweetgrass, climbing trees and picking up bugs - and I'd give anything to go back to that. Back to when the only cares we ever had were making our beds and doing the dishes.

Back then, this hug would be innocent. Back then, I wouldn't notice the way the warmth from his hands seep through my shirt and into my skin. I wouldn't feel the solidness of his strong thighs, firm against my hips. And he wouldn't smell so goddamn wonderful.

I can still feel the loss of him, the aching pit in my stomach that formed when I drove away that day, ten years ago. I squeeze him a little tighter, because I can't believe I let him go at all, my best friend. I can feel that prickling again behind my eyes. I've spent the last ten years burying my past to become someone new, expunging all those feelings in favor of a clean slate. But there's a thought that slithers into the forefront of my mind, something I've kept suppressed since the day I left, and I know I'm in trouble.

I'm still in love with him.


End file.
